


Talisman

by NeonDaisies



Series: Relationship Negotiation 101 [3]
Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Cuddle Porn, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Not Series 2 Compliant, Pre-Established Relationship, part of a series but can be read as a stand-alone, relationship exploration, some days claire temple just needs someone to look after her for a change, well sex just kind of happened so the rating's gone up, what else besides sex constitutes intimacy?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-28
Updated: 2016-05-25
Packaged: 2018-05-29 15:50:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6382807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NeonDaisies/pseuds/NeonDaisies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Claire Temple has the work day from hell, and goes home expecting to find some relief. Instead she finds the firm of Nelson & Murdock set up in her dining room.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate working title for this fic was, "DEAR GOD, WHY ISN'T ANYONE TAKING CARE OF CLAIRE TEMPLE?" Because I watched season 2, and I'm not sure how anyone came away from that thinking anything else. Takes place in what I'm calling my Relationship Negotiation 101 'verse. You don't have to read any of the other stories in the series to understand this one, but I'm not going to stop you if you decide to read a little more when you're done with this one. ;)
> 
> Claire's migraine symptoms roughly based on my own. We're all special snowflakes but I bet there's at least one symptom in here that most of you out there can sympathize with.

Claire climbs the stairs slowly, taking each riser in time with the dull throb of the migraine building behind her right eye. The visual aura, that great big blank spot in the middle of her vision is finally dimming, though it’s left behind spangles that float across everything. (Sometimes she forgets they’re not there and tries to track them.) Every step jolts through muscles that are rigid with tension, with the anticipation of the next bump, the next jostle, the next time she makes contact with anything that isn’t herself. The vision issues alone are enough to make her edgy at work, since reading and comprehension are pretty vital to her job. And she can work through pain. (Reasonable, normal person levels of pain.) But when her migraines get this bad, the couple times of year that they get this bad, she cashes in her attendance chips as she likes to call them, and bails.

All she wants is to get up to the apartment and put the shift from hell behind her.

In an effort to spend more time with Matt, she’s moved her schedule around at work. But working four 12-hour shifts in conjunction with having jumped departments entirely is kicking her ass. (She’s glad this is just a thing they’re _trying._ The ER is her first love. Perhaps no longer the one place she feels most alive, but it’s tied with the time she spends with Matt.)

(And it’s not that she doesn’t _want_ to spend more time with Matt – she’s moved in with him after all. It’s just…if someone asked what her life’s calling was, she’d answer with her occupation, not her relationships.)

(There’s one more flight of stairs left between her and home.) If she thought Matt were there, she’d call him to come carry her the rest of the way. Instead she forces her feet to keep going by focusing on the bed that’s waiting for her. (Hallway.) Maybe, hopefully, she can nap for a couple of hours and wake up feeling more herself before Matt gets home. (Closed door.) Though he’d said something about case prep last night, so he might not get home until after midnight.

Groaning in relief, Claire trips through the door, her feet tangling as she tries to toe off both shoes at the same time. As she stumbles, she barely avoids slamming the door closed, not that slamming into the wall is so much better. Just quieter. “Shit,” she hisses under her breath.

“Claire?” Matt’s voice is accompanied by the scrape of chair legs against hardwood, the sound grating enough to make her wince and want to cover her ears.

“Crap. What time is it?”

Karen’s voice is not just unexpected, it’s…jarring, and followed by Foggy reporting the time and the sound of footsteps. Matt comes around the corner from the kitchen, steps faltering as he must catch a whiff of her.

“Rough day?” he asks, sounding concerned. (She can’t really see his face, between the light coming through the windows and her photosensitivity, he’s horribly backlit.)

“I got puked on three times.” Her voice is low (a concession to her headache) and a little shaky (a concession to her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day).

“I can tell.”

Well, that’s not fair, considering she’d showered at the hospital afterwards, but she starts stripping off her borrowed scrubs anyway. Matt comes forward and braces her, making the entire process so much easier. “Thought I’d have time to get cleaned up before you came home,” she mumbles. As nice as his hands feel (strong, steady, certain) she shrugs out of his touch and slouches down on the bench by the door. (Bumps the back of her head against the coat hooks above it as she misjudges where her body is in space.) “Damn it.” She presses the heel of her hand against her eye socket hard enough to make herself see stars, drives her fingers against bone, tries to make one sensation trump the others.

“Hey.” Matt crouches down in front of her, sounding more concerned than ever. “What’s wrong?”

“Migraine. Can’t really see.” His hand replaces hers, thumb brushing over her brow soothingly. Feels nice.

“It’s a bad one?”

Maybe. Probably. It’s still developing, but the number of accompanying symptoms is growing, which is never a good sign. Instead of agreeing she presses into his touch and sighs. (Can’t help but brush the tips of her fingers up and down the soft skin of his inner arm, from wrist to rolled back shirt sleeve.) “Why are you all here?”

“Rats.”

“Mmm?” There’s things she’s learned to do, ways they’ve learned to talk. (They spend a lot of time in bed with their hands resting on each other’s faces.) So she feels his lopsided smile.

“They chewed through the main utilities breakers at the office. The main offenders got the chair, so to speak, but there’s no power until Monday and the exterminators were getting underfoot. And since Karen’s studio is cramped for one and Foggy’s place is a mess –”

“Objection! Assuming facts not in evidence.”

“Overruled,” Karen says.

“ – we ended up here. But if you’re not feeling well we can pack up – ”

“No. It’s fine. I just need to sleep.”

“You’re sure? It won’t be hard to –”

“Matt.” She actually laughs a little, not so far gone that she can’t see the irony. “I want you to remember this moment the next time I send you off to work against my better judgment.” Reluctantly she stands up, waits for the pounding in her head to settle back down.

“Your blood pressure is high.” His voice is for her ears only.

“Hush. I just need to sleep.” She considers picking up her dirty clothes, but doesn’t want to bend down for them. Instead she heads into the kitchen for some water, eyes shuttered against the light.

“Hey, Claire, sorry for taking over… Uhh…why are you naked?”

Since she’s still wearing a tank top and underwear, that’s not exactly accurate. “If I’ve got anything you haven’t seen before, I’m not sure you’re really qualified to be offering Matt sex advice.” She gets her water and starts searching for the painkiller she wants. Unfortunately, Matt has a bad habit of moving things (specifically the things that she uses) and not telling her, even though they put everything away together.

“Matt, where did you put my Midol?”

Silence from the offender in question. When she risks a glance at him, he’s frowning.

“Matt.” And even though she tries not to let it out, even she can hear the weariness in her voice of this issue cropping up _again_.

“Here. Here, I have some.” Karen hurries over to her purse and pulls out a bottle. She shakes two pills out into Claire’s hand. “Cramps?”

She makes a face. “Not yet. But thank you.” Claire knocks them back then heads into the bathroom for a shower.

 

+

 

Claire uses one of those bomb things, the kind that dissolve in the shower. She doesn’t use them often, saves them for bad days because she knows he finds them too strong. And he can smell the lavender oil in it wafting out from under the bathroom door on the steam she didn’t turn on the fan to deal with. She also didn’t turn on the lights.

He could hear the misery in her voice, the hesitation between the moment she opened her mouth and the moment she started speaking, as if she needed the extra time to find the words she wanted. It makes him feel like an asshole for moving her stuff and forgetting where he put it.

“ _Nice_ one.” The sarcasm in Karen’s voice would be evident to a deaf man, so he hears it pretty well. “Some things should be sacred. Period supplies are one of them.”

Matt sighs and rubs his head, trying to remember when he might have moved Claire’s pills. “What was it she was looking for?” If he has to go buy more, he’d better get the right thing.

“Midol.”

“Yeah. Okay.” Matt sighs again and scratches his face. He wants to do more for Claire, but she’s made it clear she doesn’t want help right now. “Where were we, before…?”

“Witness order.”

“Right.”

 

+

 

Claire hides in the shower. It’s dark, and it’s quiet. The nightlight she keeps by the sink gives off just enough light for her to make sense of her surroundings, keeps her from shampooing her hair twice instead of grabbing the conditioner, but mostly she stands under the shower head and keeps her eyes closed. Lets the excellent water pressure pound against her scalp and drown out the sensation of her hair hurting. Stands there until the hot water starts to run low and getting out becomes unavoidable.

She braces herself. Braces herself for the way she has to shove at the shower dial to turn it off, the force of her arm and the stiffness of the mechanism shooting up her body to curl between her shoulder blades. (Moans softly as the jolt and the sound combine.) Braces herself to dry off, fighting against the need to rub as _hard as she can_ and the knowledge that doing so won’t help. Will just make something else throb and ache for a few seconds before dulling. Braces herself to dry her hair as much as she can while moving it as little as possible.

Realizes she forgot to bring pajamas in with her and stalls out. Sits down on the toilet and sighs. Outside she can hear the low murmur of voices; it’s possible she could make it from the bathroom to the bedroom without being noticed, but she’s already kind of scandalized Foggy. And while nudity (or near nudity, or partial nudity) doesn’t really phase her, maybe she could ask for help instead of wandering around in a towel.

“Help me.”

The discussion outside continues. Maybe he thought she was talking to herself?

“Matt?” She doesn’t raise her voice, isn’t loud enough for two-thirds of the people out there to hear her. “Help?” But the entire point of having a boyfriend with super hearing should be that –

“You called?” Matt slips into the bathroom, letting in as little light as possible.

“I’m naked.”

“I thought you had a headache.”

She can hear the smile in his voice; it makes a ghost of one appear on her own face. They’ve spent a couple of very nice afternoons getting rid of her headaches. (Normal, everyday, this-is-annoying-but-I’ll-live headaches.)

“Pajamas are in the bedroom.” She sounds pitiful.

“Ah. So I’m here to fetch and carry.” He doesn’t leave to get her something to wear though. Instead he scoops her up, towel and all, in a move that makes her heart flutter despite the migraine.

“I need to sleep.” Needs to sleep and not remember the way he pretends not to show off while he does pushups. _(“Oh, Claire. I totally didn’t notice you sitting there painting your toenails. Do you mind if I take off my shirt and take up all the floor space?”)_

He must tell how uncertain she feels, because he bows his head and nuzzles at her ear. “You need to sleep,” he agrees. “And your pajamas are in the bedroom. So close your eyes and get the door.”

 

+

 

Claire hesitates, holding herself stiff in his arms despite the infatuated pitter-patter of her heart. (He likes surprising her.) (Likes it more when his wonderfully independent and self-reliant Claire asks for help.)

“Um… Karen and Foggy are out there…?”

There’s one thing Matt has asked Claire never to do: she doesn’t compromise herself. And if Foggy hadn’t said anything earlier, she’d be wandering around in a bath towel and behaving as if everyone in the apartment was a mature adult. (To her, a body is just a body until there’s sentiment attached to it.) But sometimes she stumbles, spends too much time remembering that her views on bodies and relationships and sexuality aren’t everyone’s. So there’s really only one appropriate response.

“Screw ‘em. Let’s get you into bed so I can go back to racking up the billable hours.”

“Mmm…my hero.” Claire relaxes, or maybe not _relaxes_ ; her posture becomes pained instead of separate. But she leans her head on his shoulder and he can hear her groping for the edge of the door.

The rest of it they’ve got worked out; this isn’t the first time he’s carried her into the bedroom. She knows how to grab hold of the sliding door and hang on while he takes a step to the side to get it moving. He knows how to slow down so she can push the frame closed behind them over his shoulder.

_“Foggy! Did that just…did they…they’re not about to…you know. Are they?”_

_“I hope not.”_

Matt ignores his friends’ speculations, the implications in their tones, although he’s _really_ glad he’s not about to do anything that’s going to make Foggy resort to singing show tunes. Or 80’s power ballads. Because he’s not going to help matters by hanging around until Claire falls asleep. (Mostly she just wants to be left alone on the rare occasions she has a migraine, but she permits him to hover until he’s reassured that she’s fine.)

Claire sighs, the barest hint of a groan hiding in her throat as he sets her down on the bed. She curls in on herself, turning away from the window and tucking her head under her arm.

“Here, get under the covers.”

“Nooo…” She struggles to push herself up. “Pajamas. Blanket. Just napping. Can’t fuck up my sleep schedule now.”

He’d argue, but he knows how hard she’s worked to make this new schedule happen. Appreciates why she’s made it happen. So it’s not worth getting them both angry over something that’s essentially trivial. But he does still try to get his own way. (Can’t quite let that go.) Has to insist that she wear _his_ shirt, and _his_ socks along with her own sweats. Has to settle her where he wants, has to tuck her under her nan’s hand-knitted blanket the way he wants, has to brush aside her weak protests and lie down beside her.

 

+

 

Matt’s a bully. A great big, overprotective…warm…bully…who settles his hand at the back of her neck and starts rubbing his thumb back and forth over the soft skin behind her ear. His pace is sure and steady. (Gentle. He’s always so gentle with her.) And there’s something about the October sun, the color and the angle of it, that’s like spikes being driven through her brain, even with her eyes closed. So Claire curls a little closer, tucks her head a little more, blocks out as much of the room as she can with Matt’s body.

“Want your sleep mask?”

It’s a logical conclusion. It wouldn’t even be the first time she’s come home with a headache and put it on. But this isn’t about blocking outside stimulus. This is all happening inside her, and the mask…

“It’s too much. Here.” Claire uses her fingertips to draw a line from the corner of his eye back towards his ear. “The strap.” It’s not wide enough, concentrates too much pressure over too small an area. Makes all the throbbing worse. Makes the darkness not worth it.

Matt doesn’t reply. Just keeps up the tender back-and-forth of his thumb against her skin, the motion so smooth, so light, that it doesn’t jar her. Doesn’t make her want to cringe away and protect herself with distance.

She hurts, aches from her eyebrows, up over her scalp, down her neck and all the way to her tailbone. And as quiet settles in (aside from the ever present white noise of the city in motion outside the windows) she struggles to control it. Breathes deliberately, shallow in-and-out breaths between parted lips. The next time she turns her face against the comforter it’s to wipe away reactionary tears; the silence is such a _relief_ , and at the same time it removes all distractions from the pervasiveness of her discomfort.

Goddamn PMS glooms.

 

+

 

Matt holds Claire as close as she’ll let him and just…keeps her company. Reminds himself that this isn’t something he needs to _solve._ (He’s been told that too, that Claire knows what’s going on with her body better than he does, and if he says _one word_ about how he thinks he can sixth sense his way around it better than she can, then God help her…) (“It’s just a period, Matt, I’ve been doing this for decades now.”) (She’d said like he’d say “It’s just a cracked rib,” or “It’s just a broken finger.” Like the pain, while real, is momentary and no detriment to doing whatever needs to be done.)

But she’s struggling to fall asleep, is exerting too much control to actually relax. And the way she sniffs from time to time, how she doesn’t really bother to brush away the slow tears that leak from her eyes, hurts him though. She must have better options than suffering in silence.

“There’s always the other mask,” he finally offers, when staying silent is harder than facing the possibility of being brushed off.

“What other mask?” Her voice is dull, resigned. The Claire in his arms is a bed of embers, muted, her energy banked for now.

“The one I, ah…wore to bed last week.”

The scent of lavender spikes, oils excited by the rush of blood through Claire’s body at the reminder. (Maybe not as strong, not as hot as she’d burn under other, better, circumstances, but still an ego boost.)

“Oh.” She wets her lips. “That mask.” And then she settles again, memories no defense against the pain she’s in either. “I put it away.”

Yeah, he’d found it, tucked away in a corner of the steamer trunk. Hadn’t been able to tell if she’d been locking away temptation or making some kind of penance for enjoying the sight of him in his old black fatigues, but he’d pulled it out again. Had actually wrapped the thing around his arm and worn it out under the body armor.

(Not that he would ever admit to it. Even if he didn’t feel guilty for having chosen this, of all things, as some sort of sign of favor from her, it makes him feel like a bit of a sap.) (But despite that, it’d never quite made it back to the trunk.)

He rolls away, ignoring her sound of protest, sharper than it really need be. (Like he’s really going to go flinging his secrets about in the daylight.) But the mask is rolled up with his socks, its latest place after he’d felt weird keeping it in the bedside drawer. (He and Claire are damn honest with each other, but she’s one of the people he’d never admit this little impulse to.) (He doesn’t want to risk her being horrified at the idea.)

She’s watching him now, sitting up and swaying slightly. And when he sits on the edge of the bed and offers it to her, she doesn’t try to take it.

“Claire?”

 

+

 

He looks…transparent. (Hopeful, anxious, vulnerable, concerned…all of it.) And she doesn’t want to make snap judgments out of her own sense of independence (“I’m fine.”) or vulnerability (he’s a bully in all the best and worst ways and sometimes she has to stand her ground despite her reservations). So she takes her time thinking it over.

It’s odd, the things she takes to heart. The moments that remind her why she’s moved into this apartment with the easy rooftop access, why she’s choosing to make a compromise in her professional life for a man who needs her professional skills in their personal spaces. (And she marvels again at the forms that intimacy can take, the fluidity of sentiment and the talismans of emotion.) Because this strikes her as staggeringly intimate. This offering up of something she views as so intrinsically _Matt._ (It’s both his identity and mask behind which he hides it.) She looks at the mask (at this scrap of cloth) and she hears him reaffirm that there is safety for her at the heart of him. Like being sheltered by the eye of a storm.

The black suit will always represent self-sacrifice to her just as the body armor represents self-preservation. So the question she sees represented in the palm of his hand is not just “What is he willing to do to keep fighting?” but also, “What am I willing to do to keep him fighting?”

It’s…well, it’s a question she asks a lot. But not usually with this kind of subtlety.

A man she’d known for a couple of hours, whose wounds she knew better than his name, had asked her if she had someplace safe to stay while he went out and used his body to right the wrongs going on in Hell’s Kitchen. And she’d trusted him.

Matt is offering, right now, everything he has to help her rest. Once she’s taken care of, he’ll go back to using his mind to right the wrongs going on in Hell’s Kitchen. And she still trusts him.

“Okay.”

God, the smile that spreads across his face is boyishly lopsided, and shy, and impossibly tender, and she kind of wants to kick Karen and Foggy out so that she can strip him down and they can just lie here in each other’s arms as she naps and he pretends not to watch her nap. But they are adults, and he likes his job as much as she likes hers, so instead Claire just leans forward a bit and lets Matt fit the mask over her head. Her eyes slip closed, but even then she can tell the difference between light on her eyelids and light on the fabric. And it’s comforting in the same way her nan’s blanket is comforting, as the memory of the weight behind the heel of her mother’s hand as it rested on the bridge of her nose (a favored soothing sensation for young Claire), as a favorite and ratty shirt or borrowed socks. (Safe, safe, safe, and so cared for.)

It doesn’t just help dim the pain, it helps settle the glooms.

Matt tucks her back in, impossibly large hand tucking back behind her neck, thumb once again stroking back and forth. Back and forth. Back and…forth…

 

+

 

Everything about Claire is a little easier now. The movement of her chest, the tilt of her head, the ease in the fingers curled over his forearm. (If he is touching her, then she is touching him, something she’s done since they started this. Her substitution for eye contact.) She’s no longer pressing into the mattress as if to escape herself, but rests on top of it. His own tension eases with the passing of hers.

She’s not quite asleep when he presses a kiss to her brow and another, lingering one to her cheek. But she’s close. He can feel a hint of a smile twitch through her cheek, but otherwise she doesn’t stir. Oh, she likes (enjoys, desires) his company, but she’s okay when left on her own. Always has been.

He’s not sure he’s ever met anyone who can match the confidence that Claire has in herself.

“You’ll call if you need me?”

“Mmmhmm…”

“When should I wake you up?” He’d like her to sleep until she feels better; she wants a nap that will let her sleep tonight.

“…time iz’t?”

“Four-thirty.”

She swallows, the sound loud in his ears, then yawns. “Six.”

He nods, face pressed close to hers so she’ll feel it, then reluctantly gets up.

“Matt?” Claire’s fingers slide across the bed, extend towards him until he reaches down and can’t help but squeeze them. “Thank you.”

He squeezes her fingers again and quietly leaves the room.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of 3. Sexy times coming up.

“Claire.”

She frowns. Turns and buries her nose in her (Matt’s) pillow. Takes a series of deep, sharp breaths as she fights to wake up. The headache is better. Not gone, but not a threat to her anymore. Now what she mostly feels is the foggy residue of the main event, like everything in her head has been moved two inches to the left and she keeps reaching for but not quite grasping the things she needs. Like language.

“How do you feel?” Matt’s hands are gentle as they push the mask off, thumbs caressing her face in slow sweeps. The sun has dropped below the surrounding buildings, the glare is less direct. Easier to handle.

“Mmm…hungover,” she eventually decides. It’s true enough. She could sleep for another couple of hours and still not be ready to wake up. (Or that could be her general exhaustion talking, but the only way to fix that is to push through until her internal clock is reset to days.)

Matt helps her sit up all the way, hands drifting over her body like he’s looking for a physical injury.

“I’m fine.” But she doesn’t try to push his hands away. Lets him get on with what _he_ needs to feel safe.

His touch drifts to a stop, two spots of warmth resting behind her elbows. “Isn’t that my line? Although…I guess I can’t disagree.”

“Like that would stop you.” Matt laughs ruefully, and Claire smiles. Maybe she can manage to stay awake for awhile after all. “I –”

“Honey, we’re home.”

Claire blinks rapidly at the sound of Foggy’s voice. “You’re still working.” That’s…disappointing.

“Yeah.” Matt sounds apologetic. “We’ve got a couple of hours to go still.” His lips drift across her forehead and she can feel him sigh. “We’re taking a break for dinner though. And I sent them for take out from that Cuban place you like.”

“Because it tastes like home,” she murmurs. Summer nights on her abuela’s tiny back patio, watching her dad sweat through dinner. Not because he wasn’t comfortable, but because Abuela didn’t believe in tempering the spice of her food.

“Yeah. Because you said it tastes like home.”

Perhaps there are _some_ perks to dating an overprotective bully. “So what’d you order me?”

“Well, that depends on how hungry you are. Soup if you’re not too hungry, a filet if you’re starving.”

“What’d you order?”

“I didn’t. I’ll have whatever you don’t want. I was thinking we could go up on the roof… I’ll let you wear my sunglasses.”

It’s more time than she’d have gotten with him if he’d stayed at the office. Plus the bonus of fresh air, the faint scent of herbs from her little potted garden. “Twist my arm, why don’t you.”

 

+

 

And he does. Twists it gently behind her back so that she has to arch her chest into him. Then he ducks down, not for a kiss, but something more quietly intimate. Breathes in the scent of her, gently warm and smelling deliciously of _them_ , of fabric softener and (his, always his because _she_ came to _him_ ) their sheets. Listens to the beat of her heart and the hush of her breath.

His Claire, successfully cared for.

He lets her go reluctantly.

“Put on a sweater. Wind’s picked up.”

 

+

 

Matt’s in luck. It’s a soup kind of night for her, and Jama makes a superior chicken soup. Tomato based broth, garlic, onion, cumin, avocado… No cilantro, which her abuela would approve of. Rice, not noodles.

She does feel better, now that she’s had some sleep, some food. Is able to look around her at the tiny collection of pots sitting off to the side of their chairs. The potted herbs had come from her fire escape; there hadn’t been time to plant flowers this year. Next year though…

Claire catches herself making plans for the coming year and carefully sets them aside. (She’s no longer taking things one day, or week, or month at a time. But she hasn’t made the leap to thinking in years. It’s only a matter of time, with Matt, before something will come up to truly test them. And she wants to meet the test before she starts making promises she can’t keep.)

(Sometimes she thinks Matt knows that. Thinks that’s why sometimes he holds her so tight and denies anything’s wrong.)

She glances over at him, squinting even through her sunglasses. (His, while the offer is appreciated, just aren’t dark enough to help the lingering photosensitivity much.) He’s listening to the city like he’s had enough indoor time. Her seat has the view; he faces the billboard. Maybe its height reflects sound from the street better. But he’s having dinner with _her_ , so she extends a foot and pushes lightly at his knee.

“So, is trial prep going well, or poorly?”

He comes back to himself slowly, or maybe he just needs a moment to decide how to answer. “It’s going well, actually. There’s just a lot of moving pieces to this one. Lot of planning. Lots of places where people might waffle under questioning. We’re having to plan things pretty carefully. We need to win this one.”

It seems an odd thing to say, as if there’s ever a case that he wouldn’t mind losing. But she knows what he means. That sometimes there’s fights that you won’t ever be free from if you lose them.

“I’m tempted to come watch you in court tomorrow.” She’s never seen that part of him, the one that roams a courtroom. Something tells her it’s close to his Devil persona, but more tightly contained, his intensity channeled through his lips instead of his feet and fists. “I like witnessing competence in action.”

Matt laughs, the sound low and knowing, adding a heat that hadn’t originally been in her suggestion. “I know you do. And as interesting as that might get…later…maybe we could save that for a time when I can show off.”

Yeah. She’d like that. And it’s interesting that Matt isn’t against the concept of his day job as foreplay, just not when he’s personally invested in the outcome of the case. And because of who he is, he wouldn’t be able to miss how she felt about it, and she supposes she can understand the distraction that might represent.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

“I’m counting on it.”

 

+

 

After dinner, Claire settles down on the couch with her laptop and her earbuds. Queues up a series of TED Talks about health and science and the human body. Something she can close her eyes and listen to with the sound on low.

(She hasn’t said anything about it, but Matt thinks she’s considering going back to school. He’s not sure why or for what, other than she sometimes feels overwhelmed when he comes in bleeding.)

Her presence in the room feels like company, even though he, Foggy, and Karen remain hard at work. And he likes having her closer to him, where it’s easier to track her body’s rhythms without feeling quite so much like an eavesdropper.

He loses track of time for…hours. Karen bails around eight. She wants to get to the office and have it open on time, even if nothing’s working. (She says there’s always a chance someone will come by and need last minute shoring up before the trial starts.) He and Foggy keep working. There’s another brief interruption when Claire comes over and kisses the top of his head goodnight. And awhile after that Foggy gets up to make coffee. In between those two things (and continuing after the coffee) there’s just stack after stack of witness statements and depositions, time punch logs and descriptions of security footage, and quiet conversation as he and Foggy pin down the timeline they’re reconstructing.

 

+

 

The bed should be comfortable, hard to leave in the way that it always is when the sheets, and the blankets, and the pillows, and the light are all perfect. Nonetheless, Claire wakes up feeling…restless. (Achy. Aware.) There’s a lingering tension in her shoulders and an entirely different kind of tension setting up shop in her lower body. At least the headache is gone, mostly, but after thirty minutes of _not_ falling back asleep despite the perfection of everything else, she accepts that she’s probably going to be awake for awhile. Since she doesn’t have to work tomorrow, it’s not the worst thing that could happen, but it’s…annoying. At least it’s not too late. Matt hasn’t come to bed yet, so…

The clock tells her it’s 1:08. Turning her head the other way, she sees light still on other room. Not that light necessarily means anything. Matt forgets to turn off the lights all the time. (They’re _too_ much a part of the background noise.) But he wouldn’t go out. Not when he has court the next day.

Would he?

Well, at least she can get up and turn off the lights. Maybe wake him up and drag him to bed if he’s fallen asleep at the table. (Maybe do a little more than tuck him in.)

Yawning, she rolls out of bed and goes to investigate.

 

+

 

The bedroom door opens. Matt lifts his head (realizing how incredibly stiff his neck is) and frowns. “What time is it?” He doesn’t remember taking off his watch at any point, but it’s not on his wrist now.

“It’s after one in the morning. Office hours are officially over.” Claire’s voice is low, rough with sleep. Her hand lands on his shoulder as she leans over and closes the lid of his laptop. “All this prep isn’t going to help if you guys don’t get any sleep.” The hand not on his shoulder starts combing through his hair, stroking up against the grain. It sends a little shiver of awareness through him. (This isn’t touch for the sake of touch. This feels…possessive. Quietly assertive.)

Across the table Foggy yawns and twists in his chair, provoking a series of snaps and pops from his spine. “Yeah. You’re right. Lemme just… Crap, this is a lot of stuff to pack up.”

“Leave it.” Claire yawns in return and hums and shifts the stack of files at Matt’s left hand. “Unless you need it tomorrow, just leave it. I have a feeling you’ll all be back after court lets out anyway. And will probably just dig out the same stuff, yeah?”

“Claire, I’ll double whatever he’s paying you to date him.”

Matt throws a wadded up sheet of legal paper at Foggy’s head, which his friend easily bats aside.

Claire ruffles his hair one last time, then moves away to start gathering dirty dishes. “Since neither of you can _actually_ afford me, it’s kind of a moot point. Now beat it.”

 

+

 

Getting Foggy out of the apartment is easier than getting Matt to come to bed. (Unless he’s injured, he doesn’t leave messes behind.) And he seems to be taking some perverse pleasure in trying to send her back to bed despite her (admittedly subtle) signals that she’s not currently tired.

The third time he refuses to let her help wash up the sundry dishes that have accumulated through the day, she gives up. Goes and collects her dirty clothes from earlier and takes them into the bedroom to be dropped in the hamper. And then, while she’s in the bedroom, she pauses. Thinks about what might happen if she goes back out in the mask, when she’s not in pain. (Those thoughts are enough to make her wet and breathless.)

(Does he know? Can he tell? Is he out there at the sink, frozen in distraction as he senses her go thermonuclear?)

And really, would it be wrong? They’ve played along these lines before. She’s let him blindfold her (and he’d enjoyed denying and teasing her into orgasm after orgasm). Just the other week he’d suited up in his fatigues and given her the powerlessness she’d been asking for. He’d put the mask on her today to keep her safe. Putting it on now would mean something entirely different. (But also not so different. He is still safe, still the person with gets to explore herself with.) And then there’d been that new discussion today. About him being okay with her sitting in a courtroom and getting off on watching him do his job. (Would this be different?)

The mask is poorly hidden, one stray edge peeking out from under her pillow until she – slowly – slides it out. And when she glances towards Matt, she knows that _he_ knows that something is up. (He’s dutifully washing the dishes, but his dimple is flashing in and out of existence as he flexes his jaw.)

She makes a helpless, questioning, non-verbal sound and across the room Matt nods once, the movement sharp and jerky.

Whatever she wants, he’s up for.

(She wishes, almost wishes, she had time to do the whole thing. Tight black turtle neck, tight black pants, boots, if for no other reason than the echoing of his own fatigues is a message of its own.) (There’s no time for theatrics though, so she strips down to her underwear and her tank top.) (Grabs the mask, settles it on top of her head like she’d seen him do so many times before, face revealed but ready to be hidden away at a moment’s notice.)

And then she starts the hardest part of all of this. Walking out to Matt.

 

+

 

She’s got good instincts, he has to give her that. Almost all of Claire’s training in stealth revolves around not waking up patients she wants to remain asleep, which is no real training at all. (Too much of her job involves patients that _can’t_ be woken up for one reason or another or patients that _need_ to woken up for one reason or another.)

But she knows the apartment. Knows where the floors squeak and creak and groan and avoids each spot as she one by one turns off the lights. And she can be quiet, he’s drilled her in that. (He takes no risks where Claire is concerned, and while his “drills” leave her withdrawn and edgy for days after, she doesn’t protest his need for them.)

He doesn’t know what his part in this is supposed to be. Only knows he even has a part because of the way she tip-toes towards him, like she has a chance of taking him by surprise. And he lets her play out whatever’s in her head right now, focuses his entire attention on the remaining dishes in the sink. Is even partially successful because he loses track of her for a moment, but nothing could ever hide the heat radiating out from her as she comes up behind him. And then…then the possibility of focusing on anything else is just…gone. Poof. But she does nothing, says nothing, makes no sound or movement or anything to indicate what she wants.

So since she’s playing at sneaking up on the blind man, he goes along with it. He pulls the plug from the drain and starts drying his hands on a towel.

“Claire? That you?”

 

+

 

Claire isn’t confident enough to pull the mask over her eyes while attempting to navigate a darkened apartment that’s been turned into a makeshift office space. Besides, once she’s in the kitchen and deems it safe enough to tug the fabric down over her eyes… Well, habit takes over. Her eyes slide closed behind the gentle tension and she edges towards Matt out of memory of where he’d been.

(And they’ve played with this, played with all the ways she can focus on him without her eyes. While she’ll never be as good at it as he is, she can feel the slight change in temperature that tells her where his body is. Can feel the slight movement of air as he stops washing dishes and goes still.)

“Claire? That you?”

(She doesn’t know how to play this, doesn’t know if this is role-play, if she should be the woman in the mask, or if this is just the next natural extension of what this afternoon and evening turned into.) (But she knows which one makes her _want_.)

With a soft sigh of relief she steps up behind him and presses close. Slings her arms low on his waist and rests her head on his shoulder. Smiles as he somehow tenses and relaxes at her touch, his body leaning back into the heat of hers. Holds her breath as he reaches back with one damp hand and cups the back of her head.

Muscles that had been tense become…she doesn’t even know the right word, and doesn’t care to try to find it. It’s like she’s frozen him on the brink of exploding into motion. His fingertips slide over fabric…and he…he _growls_ …a little. Low in his throat. And she curls her fingers into his hips and rises up on her toes and nuzzles the back of his neck, her upper body almost entirely supported by his as he takes the weight and braces against it.

“Claire.” Her name is a demand, a call to action, a talisman in its own right. (And she’d known that from the start, when he’d asked for her name and refused to give his. There’s power in names, after all.)

“Matt. Matt, you’ve taken such good care of me.” Her hands start to stroke up and down his sides, fingers digging into muscle without regard for pain or pleasure. (Because he needs strength to match, always has. And while she’s always had the emotional and mental strength to match him, it’d taken time for her to understand that she could shut him down in so many other ways than just a hand pressed over his ear and the sound of her voice.) “It’s selfish of me to even ask –”

“Whatever you want.”

“I want your surrender.”

They’re the same words he’d said to her while wearing this same mask. (He’d said them to her with a hint of challenge, buoyed by the knowledge that whatever her answer he had her permission to earn her surrender by any means necessary.) (God help her, but she’d invited the Devil of Hell’s Kitchen into her bed and he hadn’t disappointed her.)

(God help her, because she says those same words with a hint of a plea.)

“Whatever you want.” Matt repeats the offer as a shiver runs through him. As his hand drops away. As he half-raises his arms as if truly surrendering.

 

+

 

The apartment is quiet. (Claire waits.) The building creaks around them, timbers giving up their heat, taking in the night’s chill. (Claire breathes against his back, hands still but _present_ , fingers pressing into him, ten distinct points of warmth.) Down on the streets a sweeper hums by, the sound steady and slow as it bounces between this building and the next. Claire keeps breathing and he pulls his senses inward, focusing on Claire, on the way she quietly asserts herself, her silent invitation to let her take him apart.

“You’re tense,” she murmurs against his neck.

He almost laughs, except he’s hanging on to his composure by a thread and if she doesn’t start touching him, _really_ touching him, and soon –

“You’re a tease.” His response is quick, almost dismissive, but he can feel the grin that spreads across her face.

“Mmm…” She circles his navel with one finger then follows the line of his shirt buttons up to his loosened collar. Pushes another button loose before following the same path back down. “Well, maybe you should stop being so easy. To tease.” As if to prove her point she turns her head and rakes her teeth against the back of his neck.

It almost breaks him. Almost makes him spin around, swap their places, pin her up against the cabinets and start devouring her. Instead he tightens his grip on the counter and bows his head. “Claire…”

“Shh…” Her hands stroke down the front of his slacks, nails biting into his thighs. “Let me touch you. Let me see how long you can bear it.”


	3. Chapter 3

Matt’s head drops back, rests on her shoulder. His stubble chafes at her jaw and she can’t help but kiss at him blindly. And he takes it, beautifully. Spreads his legs a little further, sinks down a little lower. (She sways a little as she takes his weight, as he leans on her, but his abandon is gorgeous.) Lets her comb a hand through his hair and tilt his face so that it’s easier to kiss his mouth, those ridiculously rosy lips.

She can’t help herself. His body is just so…open, and her hands are…greedy. (Greedy for the shivers her touch can pull out of him, for the way he has to break the kiss to make these hard, shallow little inhalations.)

But it’s awkward. Doesn’t give her the depth she wants. So she glides to the side, tangles her fingers with his reaching hand and pulls him further into the kitchen. Boosts herself up onto the counter and draws him in with her heels behind his thighs. A hand on the side of his face tells her that he’s still wearing his glasses; for once she wants to leave them on. She’s never taken the opportunity to fog them up properly.

Matt follows her lead, hands cupping her skull while she bites at him, starting with that chin he loves to jut out. With the jaw he clenches so hard when he’s holding himself back. At his sensitive ears. At the lips he uses to such devastating effect. And he surges into her, hands drifting over her neck and shoulders, cycling back up to her face. He traces the line of the mask, fingers rubbing and plucking at the material.

“Want to take it off?” She knows what she wants _him_ to take off, and sets to work, pulling his shirt out of his pants with a couple of hard yanks before she starts unbuttoning it the rest of the way.

“No.” His voice is low and breathless. “Leave it on.”

“It’s hot.” She’s sweating lightly under the mask. But while she’s complaining about the heat, Matt’s response contains another implication entirely.

“Yeah, it is.” He pulls away long enough for her to push the shirt off his shoulders. Then he’s back, nosing along the line of her cheekbones, hands playing with her hair, with the tails of the mask, with the straps of her tank top…

“No, no, no, no.” She’d come out here with a goal. And while it’s ridiculously easy to get sidetracked (so, _so_ easy), she takes his hands and pulls them away. “I want you…” she presses a kiss to the inside of his left wrist, “to keep your hands…” presses a kiss to his right wrist, “to yourself.”

“Claire…” He half laughs, drops his head back, exposes his throat (which she obligingly nuzzles at), and squeezes her hands.

“I mean it. I want you to put your hands behind your back, and I want you to keep them there until you can’t stand not being inside of me for one. More. Second.”

“Jesus, Claire.” But he does it. Grips his hands at the small of his back and takes a slow, deep breath. Like he’s daring her to do her worst.

But she doesn’t want to do her worst. She wants to work him over, make him squirm and sweat and grit his teeth. (She wants to exhaust him, wants to drag him back to bed, and then curl up next to him.) (Though, curling up next to him right now sounds pretty good too.)

 

+

 

Claire leans to her left, curls her upper body into his, her head resting on his shoulder. The fabric of the mask rubs against his neck, reminding him again that she’s wearing it. (As if he could forget.) The tips of her right pointer and middle fingers press against his sternum, over his heart. Twist a little so that her short nails dig into his skin. (Her heart is a wild flutter against his ribs, nearly a match for his own.)

(And it’s hard to judge such things, but she’s probably as wet as he is hard, and it makes it that much more difficult to keep his hands clasped behind his back.)

“Claire. Please, Claire. Please, just…” He just wants her to touch him, to give him a sensation to brace himself against. “You promised.”

“Did I?” The pressure changes as she rests her palm against his chest, the thumb sweeping back and forth soothingly as she trails it down his body, stopping now and then to outline a muscle or trace a scar.

_“Claire.”_

“Shhh…” Her fingertips find his belt; as she works it free she grips the back of his neck firmly. “Shhh…” The tension around his waist increases before dropping away. He can’t help the way his hips thrust towards her when she pauses at the button to his pants. (Her smile spreads across her face – he can feel it against his shoulder before she ducks her head and presses small kisses against his open mouth.) But then…her hand drifts away and he almost breaks. It’d be so easy to just… (To step into the V of her spread thighs and grind against her. To grab her hips and tip her backwards. To spin her around and haul her up onto her toes as he bends her over the counter.)

No. He doesn’t break this easy.

The moment he regains enough clarity he says, “Tease.” (Says it like a challenge.)

“That’s my boy.” And her voice is…it’s the promise of a thousand nights of warmth and company, it’s drowsy satisfaction and absolute possession and the lazy sexuality she exudes any time she lets her senses become drugged by the mutual delight of skin on skin. And he wishes she were a more verbal lover because he could listen to her forever. (He never wants her to change.)

(And she hums against his lips in an open-mouthed kiss, a soft _hnnng_ as she reaches down and teasingly grips his cock through his pants.)

 

+

 

Matt’s hard. It’s not surprising, but it’s…well, it’s always thrilling. Always.

He throbs against her hand as she palms him. (Her entire body throbs in response, her heart hammering helplessly as she tries to breathe around a suddenly dry throat.) And her fingers close around him in pure reflexive (satisfaction) (possessiveness) (greed) mischief. He hisses through his teeth and thrusts into her grip almost helplessly; Matt does torturous pleasure better than anyone she knows. (When he teases her she rolls with it, lets her body float on the sensations. But Matt fights against it, all grimaces and pained exhalations.) (He doesn’t even react to pain the way he reacts to pleasure.)

“I could suck you right now,” she murmurs as she drags her hand up his cock. “Just get to my knees right here.” A long, slow slide back down. He’s shaking with tension and she presses closer. “Even thinking about it makes me breathless.”

“Claire.” He chokes out her name; she yanks at the button of his pants and pulls down the fly. Slips her hand one layer closer to bare skin. He’s so hot (in her hand, against her torso, against the exposed part of her face).

“The way you fit in my mouth, the way I can feel you fighting your own need to get deeper inside me anyway you can.” The head of his cock is damp, slippery under his boxers. She can’t help but whimper a little, and –

It breaks him. (Her own need has always been his weak spot.) He’s (rough) (aggressive) (ravenous) careless (which is how she knows she’s succeeded), moving in to kiss her so quickly (forcefully) that she bumps her head on the cabinets, although she barely notices. She’s too busy grabbing him, fisting one hand in the short hairs at the back of his head and deliberately pushing him into further carelessness with the other.

(He bites at her.)

(She gasps.)

(He breaks away.) (Rips off her panties.) (His fingernails, short and blunt as they are, scratch at her thighs.) (His hands paw at her as they both move to get her closer to the edge of the counter.) (His fingers coax needy sounds from her throat as they slip inside the achy, hollow core of her.)

(She practically climbs up his body, her legs circling his hips and tensing to raise her up those few crucial inches.) (So that she can be above him.) (So that she can return his kisses with equal pressure, equal ferocity, as he shoves his pants and boxers down, out of the way.)

(He’s hard and she’s open and this is _happening_ …) (Except…)

He sets her back down on the counter carefully, tenderly. Breaks away to breathe, to run his hands up and down her body in long, worshipful strokes. Leans back in, not to kiss her, but just to rest his lips against hers. So that they’re breathing in the same air.

“Take me.”

The apartment is entirely silent, aside from the blood pounding in her own ears and Matt’s quiet…

He shifts on his feet. Inches closer. Slides his hands down her legs and hitches her knees around his hips. “Take me, Claire.” It should be a demand. (She’s definitely been with other people who would have made it a demand.) But on Matt’s lips the words are a sweet plea for mercy.

(And she can’t see his face but she can hear the things he’s not saying. All the things he’s admitted only once, truths dropped like offerings at her feet, offerings he’s not sure she’ll accept or spurn.)

(He wants so badly to be enough – and the _kind_ of enough changes by the day and the person – but with her it’s always a fear that who he is isn’t enough to outweigh what he does.) (Or doesn’t do.) (Like his impossible standards for himself are something she’ll not just come to accept, but to enforce.)

“Claire…” His hand travels over her cheek, down her neck. Hesitates at her throat as if he thinks he’ll be rejected if he rests it where he really wants to.

There’s this thing, this pattern that they’ve fallen into. Not accidentally; she’s been deliberate in setting it up. Sometimes out of desperation, out of frantic need to connect her reality and his. (That first night she’d been in his apartment, when she’d reached for his hand and demanded that he feel her heart.) Sometimes out of joy and peace and moments of connection so deep the rest of the world disappears. (Right now it’s a mix of the two, her instinctive reaction to the moments he reveals vulnerability.)

So she wraps her fingers around his wrist and guides his fingers down, presses forward into the palm of his hand as it rests on her breastbone. “Always.”

“Claire.” His other arm circles behind her hips, scoops her forward.

“Always. Always, Matt…” And her promises get a little more breathless as he presses into her, a slow give and take that only ends when he’s buried inside her. As he gasps for breath and restraint and possibly mercy. Which is the opposite of what she wants. (He’d promised his surrender.)

She reaches back, braces her free arm against the cabinets behind her (keeps her heart as close to being in the palm of his hand as she can with the other) and arches her back. Swivels her hips. Grins fiercely as he pulls away only to surge back into her with a broken off curse.

“Claire, wait –”

No. He’d offered her anything she wanted and she’d accepted, and it doesn’t matter how long this lasts because that’s not what she’s greedy for. So she makes it good, arches and rolls her body in a deliberate motion, meant to entice him, to break him. (His fingers dig into her hip as he rolls up onto his toes and slams into her body’s enthusiastic welcome.) “That’s…that’s not what you agreed to.”

“I don’t…what?”

She laughs and drops her hand from his wrist. Braces herself against counter and cabinet and grinds down into the press of his pubic bone against her clit. “Su-surrender.”

And he huffs out a sound, some strange mix of a laugh and a grunt as he picks up the metaphorical gauntlet and makes good on his promise.

 

+

 

Matt’s glasses are completely fogged over by the time Claire manages to raise heavy hands to her face to push the mask back. Satisfied in every way, she resettles her thighs around his hips and drops her head to rest on the counter.

 

+

 

Claire’s heartbeat settles into a slow, steady beat; she hums every now and then under her breath and sighs from time to time. Not the hard sighs she lets out when she’s frustrated or contemplating a problem, but deep, soft exhalations of contentment. (Together they’re some of Matt’s favorite sounds, evidence of Claire’s emotional well-being.) However, the setting is less than ideal.

“Don’t fall asleep on the kitchen counter,” he murmurs into her neck.

“Wouldn’t be the worst place I’ve ever fallen asleep.” He can hear the smile on her face, but she wiggles underneath him as if considering the strength of his argument. Then she yawns and goes still again, as if she actually is perfectly content to fall asleep where she is. “It’d be one of the best places you’ve ever fallen asleep, though.”

That makes him grin. “You’re awfully confident.” He groans and pulls away, catching a faint, familiar scent as he does. “I thought I was easy.”

She laughs and sighs and hums under her breath again. “Easy to provoke, maybe.” But she slides into his arms easily enough as he pulls her off the counter, leans against him as they stumble out of the kitchen and towards the bedroom. “Wait, clothes.”

“Get them tomorrow –”

“And have one of us forget until Foggy or Karen stumbles across them?” She goes back, footsteps unsteady still as she scoops up their discarded clothes and returns. Slings her arm low around his hips as she reclaims her spot at his side. “Mmm…you stayed up too late.”

“Did I?” He lets his hand drift down her bare hip until he can squeeze one delightfully full buttcheek. “You weren’t much in the mood for this earlier. And –” He interrupts himself with a yawn. “And we wouldn’t have had time in the morning.”

“Speak for yourself. I have all the time in the world.”

“Claire…”

She laughs, the sound both exhausted and wicked. “Keep your mind out of the gutter, Murdock.”

“I’m not there by myself.” She moves as if to head into the bedroom but he stops her with a gentle tug on her arm. “Let’s clean up.”

Claire’s sounds turn more disgruntled, more grumbly, but she follows after, the balls of her feet scuffing against the floor.

 

+

 

Matt is unusually fastidious in his efforts to get them cleaned up. Which isn’t entirely pleasant considering how sensitive she is at the moment. (Well, it’s not entirely unpleasant either; the washcloth is hot, and the heat is nice. It’s the rest that’s…that’s just too much.)

“Enough. That’s enough.” She pushes his hand away. “What gives?” Possessive caveman that he is (and it’s true enough of most men, at times), he normally likes that his scent is left behind on her.

The bathroom is dark, both of them familiar enough with it that they hadn’t bothered doing more than letting in the light from the living room windows to show the way, but she swears he blushes. He does duck his head and lick his lips and shuffle his feet before responding.

“You’re bleeding.”

Well, she’s not exactly surprised by that news, considering the migraine, and the glooms, and the very sudden horniness. But _bleeding_ is an exaggeration. Spotting, maybe.

“How would you know?” She asks it semi-rhetorically, but he opens his mouth to answer. “No. Never mind. I don’t think I want to know.” Yes, she’s all about honesty in relationships, but some things should remain a mystery.

 

+

 

Claire clambers into bed, dressed in a clean tank top and a pair of black cotton panties. Matt’s already half asleep, which had been maybe not her _primary_ objective in seducing him silly, but it’d made the list. A very, _very_ distant second. Or third. (She had wanted to shut his brain down.) But anyway, he’s half asleep and curled up in the blankets, and she happily joins him. Curls up behind him and wraps one arm around his ribs, presses a kiss against his spine. Smiles when he wraps his hand around hers.

It takes her awhile to fall asleep again, despite the stew of endorphins floating through her blood. (Hello, estrogen-drop-insomnia.) But this is nice, listening to Matt sleep for once and feeling the lack of tension in his body. (If there’s one thing she’s learned about her occasional bouts of insomnia, is that getting angry over it doesn’t help, and rest is rest even if it isn’t the same as sleep.) She goes all heavy-limbed and quiet herself, aware that time is passing only because she can feel the rise and fall of Matt’s chest under her arm. Her last memory is of tucking herself a little closer (and having to pull the blankets a little looser to accomplish it).

 

+

 

Matt wakes up to his alarm clock – which he doesn’t remember setting. It must have been Claire, who doesn’t even stir when he reaches over to turn it off. He admires the way she can sleep through almost anything, or at least anything that belongs in her current environment.

He doesn’t have much time to linger – she set his alarm for later than usual, probably trying to make up for his late night – but he does turn over and carefully run his hand over her bare shoulder. The scent of blood is slightly stronger now. (If he hurries, he’d have time to run around the corner. Maybe get her something special for breakfast.)

It’s hard to get out of bed, but there’s a lot of things he needs to get done today. (And it’d be nice to start the morning right.) He stays long enough to press a kiss to Claire’s shoulder and take a deep breath of her sleep-warmed skin. Then he rolls out of bed and heads to the shower.

 

+

 

Claire wakes up slightly later than she would have liked, but she really hadn’t expected to sleep through Matt getting ready for work. (Not that she did, exactly, but it’d just been so easy to fall _back_ asleep that she hadn’t had a chance to fight against it.) (She’ll need to set an alarm for tomorrow. It’s so easy to fall back into her old sleeping habits over the weekend.) So when she first opens her eyes, what she notices is the amount of light in the room. The next thing she notices is the dull ache settling into her abdomen as her body really gears up menstrual-mania. But the most important thing she notices is the glass of water and brand new box of Midol sitting next to her clock. It’s not the exact variant she normally buys, but…

She reaches for her phone and sends Matt a quick text. _(Thank you.)_ He probably won’t get it for awhile, but that’s not the point.

(When she gets out to the kitchen and sees he managed to find two late-season peaches for her to have with her breakfast sitting next to a brand new pack of Oreoes, she sends another text.) _(Wake me up tomorrow in time for your shower.)_

 

+

 

Matt hears his phone chime as he and Foggy are reassuring each other they’ve got this before they leave for the courthouse. He wonders what made her happier: the peaches or the Oreos.

**Author's Note:**

> There might be smutty cuddle porn good times coming as a chapter two to this one, but that'll depend on what you guys want. (I say that as if I don't know better.) Also pondering the possibility of the importance behind "the other night" when Matt wore the mask to *bed.
> 
> *Bed, in this instance being a metaphorical term as other items of furniture are much more likely to be prominently featured.
> 
> **Fun fact: since Claire gets migraines with aura, she's most likely using an implant or IUD for birth control purposes. I'm trying to decide just how crazy an implant would drive Matt. Can't you just see him absentmindedly rubbing his fingertips over the implantation site until Claire's skin is practically shiny?


End file.
